


Where the heart is

by Tashilover



Category: Endeavour
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, Morse!Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All I wanted to do was go home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Morse did his best to ignore the rumours about him circulating around the precinct. Ever since he was child he has been dealing with such nonsense, and it was better to let them be. Every time he tried to engage, it always turned into an argument and he always came off worse for it.

Thursday had an easier time concerning the rumours. The moment he heard one circulating, he stomped it down immediately, dealing out punishment to anyone who dared repeat it. By now Morse was sure Thursday heard the new whispers.

_Has a new boy, does he?_

_Replacing one with another, that's all he's doing._

_Must be nice to have power backing up your insane shenanigans._

While Morse was sure favouritism was not going to get Thursday fired, it wasn't going to get him any favours from the higher ups. It certainly didn't improve the working relationship between Jakes and Morse.

"Morse, you probably shouldn't see this."

Though Thursday had said it quietly, one of the passing uniforms heard it and gave them both a scowl. Sparring a single detective constable the sight of a gory crime scene was blatant favouritism and was probably going to cause more problems than it's worth.

"I'll be fine, sir," Morse said. Inside, he was already squirming.

Thursday didn't believe him, but was not going to fight him on this. "Alright," he said. "Fair warning, it's not pretty."

He led Morse up the hill, following the others. Already the smell of blood and exposed flesh hit Morse's nose, and he swallowed wetly, his anticipation getting the worse of him. He dug his fingernails into his palm as the both of them reached the top.

He saw the body and immediately flinched away, groaning.

It was a man. Or what was left of a man. He was laid down in the wet grass, facing up, his arms spread wide. His shirt had been ripped open and so were his eyes.

Someone had gutted him. A single knife wound from his chest downwards, done in the same manner a person would to gut open a fish. His heart, his intestines, liver and lungs were all in full view. Jakes himself was trembling at the sight. He struggled to light a cigarette, his hands shaking. Besides Thursday, the only other person who wasn't flinching from the sight was Dr. DeBryn. He was bent over the corpse, studying it intentesly.

"If you feel sick," Thursday said loud enough to show he was speaking to everyone present, not just Morse. "Leave the area immediately. I don't want your breakfast contaminating my crime scene."

As if on cue, one uniform suddenly bolted, his hand over his mouth. From the corner of his eye, Morse watched him duck behind a tree, the sound of gagging quickly followed after. Morse couldn't help but feel a little pride in himself for not doing _that_.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face the bloody corpse, drinking in the scene inch by inch to desensitized himself. It didn't really help.

He could feel his stomach up in his throat. He dug his nails harder and harder into his palm to fight the nausea, feeling like he was going to break skin at any moment. When he spoke, he had to pause for a quick second, thinking he was truly going to vomit. "Do... we have a name?"

"According to his personal items," Jakes said, swallowing down his own nausea. "His name was Thomas Anderson."

Morse made a face. "That sounds like the most generic name in the world."

"Well, not everyone can have a unique, speacial name like _Endeavour_ , but we try."

Usually if someone spoke his first name out loud, Morse would be telling them to shut up. The quip however sparked a small smile on Jakes face, lessing the effects of his ill. Morse let it slide this time.

"Cause of death?" Thursday asked.

"Besides the obvious?" DeBryn said with his usual level of sarcasm. "So far, I see no other wounds on him. No broken bones, no bullet wounds, no signs of blunt force trauma. Judging from the way the skin on his stomach was cut-"

Morse bit his knuckle.

"-the jagged rip was directed upwards towards his torso-"

He bit down harder.

"-spilling his intestines-"

"I have to go!" Morse suddenly announced, his voice strained to barely above a whisper. He felt like a complete shit for leaving, but he rather deal with his own incompetence rather than vomiting in front of a whole group of officers.

As Morse jogged down the hill, away from the scene, he spotted two other uniforms patting themselves down, wiping the sickness from their front.


	2. Chapter 2

A few minutes later the others came down the hill. Jakes still looked pale, the front of his shirt stained with his sweat. When he spotted Morse though, he suddenly grinned, as if sweating like a pig was superior over running away from a gory crime scene.

"We're taking the body to do a full autopsy report," DeBryn said almost merrily. "Who wants a ride?"

Nobody volunteered.

"My brave men," Thursday muttered flatly. "Fine then, I'll go with DeBryn. You two track down Thomas Anderson's flat and his next of kin. Find out who this person was, and why someone wanted them dead."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Man, my place doesn't even look like this."

No shit. As a bachelor, it was easy to fall into bad habits, like not washing the dishes for days or leaving dirty laundry on the floor. Though Monica did not live with Morse, she has complained on different occasions about his lack of hygiene (He has tried harder to be cleaner, but he blames Monica's high standards due to her being a nurse. She's even complained about the dust gathering on the edges of his mirror.)

Morse has never been to Jake's flat, though judging from his comment, it was not as sharp as his hair. Anderson's flat however...

Forget the trash that was shoved into nearly every corner, the smell alone made Morse want to turn around and never return. There was half-eaten food rotting on the table, dirty dishes left in the sink, and the toilet itself should be considered a hazardous zone.

"Ugh," said Jakes. He kept his arms close to himself, refusing to let any part of his body be touched by the walls. "Do you think this place was abandoned before Anderson was killed?"

"I don't think so. Look," Morse said, pointing to the calendar hanging off of the kitchen wall near the fridge. "He's written the names of winning horses from the race tracks. Yesterday's winner was Little Miss Poppet."

"Okay, so he was a gambler. Maybe he owed someone money and when he didn't pay, they made an example of him."

"Maybe. It does give us a timeline," Morse said. He started opening and closing the cabinets. Most of them were bare. "If the race started at three, then-"

"Oi, take a look at this," Jakes suddenly interrupted. Morse turned around to see him pull out a picture frame from a desk drawer. He held it up. "His family, you reckon?"

The boy in the picture was clearly Thomas Anderson. He was younger in the photo, probably only in his mid-teens. Besides him were whom Morse assumed were his parents. The smallest of the group, wearing a white, flower dress was a young girl barely ten years old. She was smiling widely, showing off her pearly white teeth. It was a simple, generic photo.

"Take out the photo. See if there are names written on the back."

It took Jakes a few minutes to wiggle out the photo from the frame without cracking the glass. Once he was done, he quickly read the inscription on the back, then handed it over to Morse.

In very nice cursive handwriting, it read, _The Anderson Family. Parents and kids, Pheobe and Thomas._

"Thomas Anderson has a sister..." Morse said. "I see nothing in this flat indicating Anderson had a wife or girlfriend. I'm going to assume she's Thomas' next of kin."

"I have an address!" Jakes announced, pulling out a scrap piece of paper from the same drawer. Phoebe's name and an address was scrawled hastily upon a ripped corner of a newspaper.

Jakes whistled. "Holy crap, his sister lives on the rich side of Oxford. She must've married rich," he added, eyeing the garbage surrounding him.


End file.
